Powerless
by Vol lady
Summary: I watched "The Martyr" yesterday, and at the end there was an interesting look Victoria threw at Jarrod after Francisco mentioned the beating the Basques had given him. Jarrod had not told her about it. My first thought was, "Ohhhh Jarrod, you will be paying for this…." My second thought was about his reasons for keeping quiet.


_That was why they beat slaves that way, after all, so that they would carry the scars forever, and forever remember that they were powerless._

Powerless

Jarrod saw Francisco DeNavarr to the door, then came back into the parlor, happy eyes on the several skins of Basque wine Francisco left as payment for his representing Paulino Arietta. His mother was standing in the center of the room, just as she had been a few moments ago, looking uncomfortably suspicious about what Francisco had said. Those eyes could smile and doubt all at the same time and turn you into a five-year-old with your hand in the cookie jar. She knew something you did not want her to know. Somehow she always knew.

Jarrod tried to ignore it, but it was already too late. Victoria said, "Now that you're nice and relaxed from that Basque wine, perhaps you'll let me look at your back."

Jarrod swallowed. Francisco had mentioned that the Basques had beaten him, something Jarrod was trying to keep from his mother. She would only worry, he told himself, and so long as it was only a bruise or two that she saw on his face, she wouldn't dig deeper into the incident. Francisco had made her more concerned. "It's nothing, Mother," Jarrod said.

"Well, I've noticed at times you've been favoring your back, especially when you're sitting down," she said. "Mr. DeNavarr mentioned they beat you. It wasn't just about the face, was it? May I have a look?"

Jarrod felt a rush of a bad emotion and memories that went way back before the beating his mother was concerned about, the beating with the bullwhip that Francisco DeNavarr had given him.

Being beaten up so bad that it left scars on your face and bruises on your ribs was nothing a man would want to hide. They were marks that you had fought back, even if you didn't win.

But there was something about being bullwhipped on your naked back, something about the shame of having been overpowered and tied up helplessly with your back to your enemy. A lawyer couldn't give in to how bad that felt in the middle of a murder trial – a lawyer had to show nothing but strength and confidence. But after the trial was over the emotions would come roaring back, maybe even worse for having been suppressed.

There was something about having to live with the scars of that kind of whipping that wounded a man's pride as much as it wounded his body. It made him feel weak and less than a man. That was why they beat slaves that way, after all, so that they would carry the scars forever, and forever remember that they were powerless.

The real memories bothering Jarrod now – the ones he would never discuss with anyone, much less his mother - came from being in command of the 5th Colored Cavalry at the end of the war. He remembered having to order several men to be whipped on their backs, as discipline – army regulations required he do that. He remembered that every one of those men already bore the scars from being whipped as slaves.

Jarrod thought, maybe now I've only gotten what I deserved for ordering those whippings during the war. Maybe it's fate, coming back around on me.

"Now Mother, really," Jarrod tried, hiding those bad emotions again.

"If they're infected, they'll need attention," Victoria said. "You can either let me tend to them, or you can get very sick and perhaps even die. Is your pride that important?"

Jarrod heaved a sigh and gave a resigned smile. Even a man of 34 had no chance to win an argument with his mother. Right there in the parlor, he took his vest off and turned around. The back of his shirt carried several small red-brown spots that his vest covered. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off his shoulders, letting it fall around his waist where his belt caught it.

Ugly slashes of half-healed skin and dried blood across his back, winding around his sides and shoulders, gave everything away. Jarrod held still for a moment and then quickly put his shirt back on. When he turned around to face his mother, he saw the look he did not want to see. She hurt for him, not only for the physical pain, but for the shame. She thought that for a man as proud and dignified as he was, the shame had to be especially biting.

He could read all that in her eyes. It was hard to take.

"I took care to wash my back after it happened," he said.

"Did you put anything on them?" Victoria asked.

"No," he said. "They'll heal themselves. And yes, Mother, they will leave scars like I was a beaten slave."

His past got the better of him and came out in defiance, but Victoria could match him in defiance any day. "And they will humiliate you," Victoria said.

Jarrod hesitated, then nodded, but looked away from her.

"There's no need to feel that way," Victoria said.

Jarrod smiled. "Sure," he said and didn't mean it.

Victoria came toward him. "Come upstairs. Let me put some salve on them."

Jarrod instinctively backed off from her, and was immediately embarrassed by it.

Not as embarrassed as she was. He had never done that before. "I only want to help."

Jarrod knew she would not understand, that leaving the injuries unattended was a perverse way of gaining some control over the incident. It was a way of getting the power over his own body back. Even though it was stupid to feel so weak after the incident was over, and even stupider to leave the injuries alone from a medical point of view, a big part of him wanted to say no, let them heal by themselves. I am strong. I can take it.

He used to see that in the eyes of the former slaves he had whipped. In his mother's eyes now, he saw only concern for him. That was more than he could take. "All right," he said.

He grabbed his vest and they went to his room, where he took his shirt off. It bore bloodstains that would not be coming out, so Victoria just tossed it aside. Jarrod sat down backwards on the desk chair, draping his arms over the chair back – dear God, what a helpless position, he thought, and shivered at the memory of being tied face down over that old tree while they bullwhipped him over and over again.

But as his mother bathed the wounds and then cleaned them with alcohol, he bit his lip against the sting and burn of it and did not even flinch. Being so stoic gave him back a tiny bit of that power over himself that he had lost. When she applied the salve, it was stinging at first but then cooling, and he relaxed under her touch, like he had when he was a little boy and had scraped his knee.

He relaxed, and some new feelings began to ease their way into him, overtop all the others.

"I don't think they're infected," Victoria said, "but perhaps you should go into town tomorrow and have Dr. Merar take a look."

Jarrod said, "All right," and pushed himself up off the chair.

"And for now I'd wear old clothing, as long as they're clean," his mother said. "You've still got some fresh blood staining your clothes, and this shirt is ruined. The blood will never come out. There's no use ruining more. I'll get rid of this."

"No," Jarrod said.

Victoria was surprised at that.

He didn't mention that he had already had to discard a couple undershirts and shirts because of the bloodstains, but suddenly he didn't want to discard this shirt. Without his even thinking about it, this bloodstained shirt became a different reminder to him. He picked it up before Victoria did.

She looked at him, her face a question mark.

Jarrod looked at his shirt and then at his mother. There was more here than the memory of being bullwhipped like a slave. "This isn't just a bad memory. This is – proof that I really did win. It was Francisco who bullwhipped me and now I know I won him over. I really did win that war."

Victoria smiled. "Yes, you did."

"And someone who loves me took care of me tonight. I'm gonna keep this." He smiled as he looked at the bloodstained shirt in his hands, and then he bent over and kissed his mother on the forehead.

Victoria said. "Get some rest now. You've worked enough for one night."

Then she left him alone, and they never said another word about any of it, to each other or to anyone else. But every now and then, Jarrod took the shirt out of the drawer of his dresser and looked at it, to remember exactly what it really did mean.

Something those former slaves who wore blue uniforms knew about themselves.

He was never really powerless at all.

THE END


End file.
